Barefoot On Broken Glass
by xIsobellex
Summary: Through the words inked across his skin, he knows he won't ever be alone.
**What can i say, i love Doraelin. They are eternity**

* * *

Dorian is five when he is first warned of the black blotches that seem to magically appear and disappear. They materialize suddenly on his fingertips, up his arms, sometimes across his stomach and face. It is the cook who sneaks him delicious treats that tells him to hide them. To pretend they are but messy ink patches from his lessons. The fear in her eyes terrifies him, and he cowers from the black trails across his skin.

When he refuses his mother to wash his 'spills' off, well, they all believe he is just a boy who likes messes.

000

He is seven when the first letters stain his skin. Over time, the marks had lessened and became more centered around his hands, which indeed made it easier for him to hide them. He is old enough to have read books now, and he scours the library for anything of the changing inks across his skin. It is the night he first begins to truly fear the King that he finds anything on the subject. He does not understand most of the words, but he sneaks the tome into his room anyways.

That morning when he wakes up; a word is scribbled patchily on the underside of his left forearm. He stares at it for a long time before dressing for the winter's day.

 _Hello_

000

That night, as he collapses onto his bed with the ache of hard worked muscles, he stares at the word. It has faded some, as if smudged by a hand. Not his own, Dorian knows for he has not touched or glanced at his forearm for the duration of the day.

On a whim, he ignores his aching body to run to his desk, hurriedly dapping his quill into his inkpot. In his haste he knocks it over. It splashes onto his hands as he rights the tiny pot, but the damage is already done. The ink seeps into the fine wood of his desk. He knows no amount of scrubbing would rid it of the black ink.

Dorian smiles at the thought of his mother aghast with shock at his mess (she had thought she had driven that out of him by the time he was six) before placing the quill upon his skin. He hesitated. What to write? Would there be a reply?

Below " _Hello_ ", he writes one word upon his skin.

 _Hi_

000

 _who are yu?_

 _I'm a Prince._

 _me to but a girl_

 _You mean a Princess?_

 _with a CASELL_

 _Mine is bigger than yours._

 _no its not_

 _How would you know?_

000

Dorian has to wait a week before the words appear on his arm again. The anticipation is agonizing. He pulls up his sleeve every ten seconds, angrily shoving it back down when his skin remains bare. Curious and wary at once, but excited nonetheless. Perhaps he has a magical friend, someone who is just _his_ like the people in the books he reads. Chaol scowls when he notices, and Dorian shrugs it of as an itch.

000

 _best color?_

He is ecstatic when words appear a freezing morning, and he accidently spills ink across his palm as he scribbles a reply.

 _It's blue._

 _i can set things on fire_

 _With a lamp?_

 _with my hands!_

 _That's impossible._

 _no its not_

 _Yes it is_

 _no_

 _Fine._

 _…_ _._

 _…_ _._

 _…_ _._

 _What do you like?_

 _i like fire_

 _…_ _._

 _and puppies and horses and books and dresses and swords._

 _I like books. Aren't you a girl?_

 _yes_

 _Then you shouldn't like swords. You should like sewing._

 _i don't like sewing!_

 _That's what girls like!_

000

Dorian ignores the scratches of black that appear across his arms where their words had been exchanged. He is glad that the frost biting at his nose allows him to wear long sleeved tunics. He fears his father's reaction to his… friend.

Days pass. Then a week. Dorian delves into his studies and training. If a certain cook notices a flash of inked lines when he reaches for a treat, well, she hopes the sweet boy finds happiness.

He gathers his courage and smothers his pride just to hear from her.

000

 _I like puppies too._

 _…_ _._

 _And swords. What book is your favourite?_

 _Tales of the Red Queen._

 _What's it about?_

 _well, -_

000

They continue to converse as weeks pass, and wherever Dorian goes he knows that she is with him. Through the words inked across his skin, he knows he won't ever be alone. Chaol is fast becoming serious, and Dorian is fast becoming aware of the faults in his childhood and parents. He feels that sometimes she is the only one who he can talk to.

He learns that she likes to be called Lillian and won't tell him her real name for fear he will make fun of her, that she hates the cold, has an annoying cousin who she loves despite, that her fire scares the other children and she is banned from the library, and she loves her parents dearly. He learns she doesn't want to be Queen.

She is telling him of her summer home when everything goes wrong.

000

 _Dorian_

 _Yes?_

 _im scared_

 _Why?_

 _storm_

 _It cannot hurt you. It is only a storm._

 _there is a man. he's coming towards the house_

 _Where's your father and mother?_

 _Lillian?_

 _Hello?_

 _Hello?_

000

It takes him three years to stop writing on himself, desperately wishing for a reply. As time wares on, he begins to forget about her. He convinces himself it was purely imagination, a scared and lonely little boy's fantasy.

But then his fingertips stain black when he hasn't touched a quill in days.

000

He is fifteen, and he understands how truly vile his father is. How vain and naive his mother is. The bratiness of his brother.

Chaol seems to be his only real friend, but he's too busy climbing the ranks to pay any deeper attention to Adarlan's Prince. He can't see the sadness. The crushing emptiness.

But then again, Dorian has grown exceptional at hiding it. He has clouded himself with girls and ladies, masked himself with indifference. He dances with the beautiful, wears his brilliant smile and blue eyes to his advantage, charms all those who meet him. Does scandalous things to fill the gaping void inside him, even if for only brief moment.

How can he expect his friend to look past disguises that have Dorian himself second guessing at times?

000

He is eighteen, and has just witnessed the brutality capable from a man's – a man he thought great and noble – hands. He feels sick. Adarlan is sick. The salt mines. The slums. The world is sick.

Dorian can do nothing.

000

It is because of a storm he discovers the truth. He used to love the storm. The clouds rolling in like waves, the excitement from a strike of light and then the rumble of thunder that follows. But then…

Things happened.

When a fierce crack of lightening strikes close, his hound scampers madly of the loveseat and into his bedchamber. Dorian glances up from his book, sighing as he rises to his feet. Still a skittish pup then. Forgivable, for her young age.

Dorian kneels to see under the massive bed, pushing away an old trunk full of childhood memories to find the mutt. She hid in the centre, her body trembling with fear. Dorian made calming noises, reaching out a hand to her.

She darted away, making Dorian jump back and sending dusty relics flying everywhere. He thumped his head on the hard wood of the bedframe and snorted.

What an elegant prince he makes.

Pulling himself back out from the bed, he notices an old tome beside him. The pup must have pushed it out when he had frightened her. Dorian reached for it, only hesitating when he recognized it.

Dare he open it?

000

 _Hello_?

000

Dorian tells himself not to be surprised when there is no reply. His heart still aches when he comes to a final conclusion of death.

But then there is competition, a beautiful assassin, and he forgets himself for a moment and tells her to call herself Lillian. Dorian hates his impulsivity for pressing a dream onto her.

It is not reality. But Celaena is real. Breathing, talking, kissing him.

He thinks he might love her.

(He does)

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